


Take me to Church

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 16:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30007407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: Crowley is a thief, tagging along on a burglary. He’s not thrilled to find out it’s a church.He’s even less thrilled to find out it’s not a burglary at all, but he should have known better with Hastur and Ligur.And on top of all that, there’s something about the priest that just doesn’t add up.He won’t stop smiling, for one.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 110





	Take me to Church

**Author's Note:**

> My original mental image of the tattoo was in the church, so here’s a slightly different take.

Crowley wasn’t certain about many things in life, but he was damned sure that he’d made a mistake coming in here. Hopefully not a grave one, but the odds weren’t good. It was a  _ church _ for fuck’s sake. Wasn’t there some sort of unwritten rule that you didn’t rob churches? But Lucian had said the church was a problem, so Hastur and Ligur were sent in to deal with it. Bee was waiting in a car outside. They’d let Crowley tag along after they heard about the safe he’d cracked two weeks ago. He hadn’t known they were going into a church. 

Crowley could hear every step he took, branding itself on the inside of his head. He was sure his soles would start burning any moment. Hastur and Ligur didn’t seem to care, scratching the pews and rattling the collection tin. Crowley vowed to himself that he’d never work with these two again. There was no finesse, no elegance to their approach. 

But when the priest appeared in front of the altar, Crowley realised that this was never meant to be a burglary at all. This was a shakedown. And the soft looking gentleman in the black shirt and white collar was going to get  _ cheesed _ . 

So this was entirely the wrong moment to realise that the priest was hot as… well, heaven. Can’t be hell, see, because he’s a… Never mind. Crowley just knew that he was going to be having very specific dreams tonight that wouldn’t work if the poor bugger was lying in intensive care somewhere. And that was the best case scenario. 

Crowley edged his way along the side of the church, making his way slowly to the front while the priest kept an eye on Hastur and Ligur. Crowley watched him in turn. He didn’t seem too concerned about the two men bearing down on him. He either didn’t know who Hastur and Ligur were, which was unlikely because even without knowing them their intent was all over their faces, or he was daft enough to think he could defend himself against them. Crowley didn’t think he looked that daft. Sure, he had a slightly gormless smile on his face, but there was something in his eyes, something about the way he was standing that left Crowley in no doubt that he was not what he seemed. 

The priest had an unruly corona of fluffy hair around his face, a pale blond that looked white in the dim lighting. His shoulders were broad and rounded, sloping gently downwards into arms that looked more like they were built for moving heavy objects than holding a prayer book. Everything about him suggested he was a kind, genial, friendly, middle aged man whom you could trust with your valuables both material and spiritual. 

Crowley wasn’t buying it. It was  _ too _ carefully crafted. His feet were planted too solidly, his weight even on them, knees ever so slightly bent. His hands were held in front of him, low and loose, his eyes never wandering from the approaching thugs. And he smiled  _ all the time.  _

But all that didn’t matter when you were faced with the Dukes. They were the nastiest men in London, being implicated in all sorts of crimes across the capital. They were notorious for heavy handed tactics, and the only person they ever took orders from was Beelzebub. Crowley had never found out why, and didn’t think he wanted to, frankly. Beelzebub creeped him out enough as it was. Whatever they’d done to earn the respect of two men as twisted as Hastur and Ligur was not something Crowley ever wanted to know about. He liked being able to sleep. 

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned.” Hastur sniggered. 

“Oh I think you’ve got the wrong church.” The priest said. Even his voice was soft, every word clearly enunciated. His accent wasn’t from London. At least, not this part of London. He sounded like he belonged North of the river, serving the rich and careless. 

“Nah I think we’re in the right one.” Ligur said, his dark eyes glittering with malice. “Heard there was fresh meat who hasn’t learnt how it works down here yet.” Ligur looked the priest up and down, and Crowley waited for the flinch that didn’t come. He’d crept right up to the front pew now, and was working his way through the shadows along the wall. 

He had half a plan in mind, perhaps grab the priest and try and get him out of here, out of London if need be, tell the other’s he’d strangled him and dumped him in the Thames. Crowley shuddered at the thought. 

“And just how do you think it works, pray?” Asked the priest. Crowley was getting more and more frightened by the minute. The priest’s voice didn’t have the waver that it should by now, there was no uncertainty in him at all. The hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck were raising. Something was very, very wrong, and he was on the wrong side of the church to make his getaway. 

Except, there was a door on the other side of the altar. It may not lead out, but it led somewhere else, and that was exactly where Crowley wanted to be right now. He just had to get behind the priest and then perhaps he could run… 

“See, our boss takes a cut from everyone along this street. Everyone pays their protection money, and nobody has an… accident.” Hastur stuck an unlit cigarette between his lips, the lighter flicking on and off in his hand as he leant on the end of the old, wooden pew.

“And you ain’t paid up.” Ligur snarled. “So we’re here about the accident.” Crowley could see one of Ligur’s fists clenching and unclenching. The other was balled up, holding something. 

“I see.” The priest said, his voice resigned. Crowley couldn’t believe it, was he really going to take the whole ‘turn the other cheek’ thing seriously? These two weren’t here to fuck around. But the priest had moved his hands, and was unbuttoning the collar on his shirt, for some reason. Crowley had seen enough. He wasn’t about to be a witness to whatever blood bath this was going to turn into. The priest had undone all the buttons on his shirt and Crowley couldn’t help but commit that image to memory, even as he ran across behind him. 

Or tried to, the flagstones were uneven and in his distraction he tripped, sprawling across the floor. He quickly turned to his side, ready to defend against whatever the fuck was about to rain down on him, and…

And that was the point when Anthony J. Crowley discovered religion. Of a sort. 

The lights went out in the church, no doubt Bee cutting the power from outside. The tall, narrow windows on the walls of the church had moonlight streaming in through one side, cold and silvery, and the streetlights lighting up the other. The orange beams of the sodium bulbs glowing like fire. The priest stood above Crowley, back turned to him and perfectly in the centre of the two opposing streams of light. Crowley watched in slow motion as he opened his shirt and it slipped down his back, pausing as it hung from his elbows.

Oh god, his back. Can you even say that in here? But seriously, the priest’s back. That broad expanse of shoulders and softly shifting muscle was covered in a huge tattoo. Crowley stared, the door on the other side completely forgotten. The tattoo showed enormous wings, picked out in thin, black lines, each feather individually inked. Down the centre was a sword, nothing showy, but beautifully drawn, the rounded end of the handle stopping just below the priest’s neck.  Nobody sits for a tattoo like that without being made of something more than the average man. It must have taken _hours_. 

Crowley was struck dumb, the air punched out of his lungs as the priest finally turned his head and caught Crowley’s stunned gaze, winked at him, and Crowley decided the priest was a bastard because no holy man could wink like that, in such a way that it turned Crowley’s sprawled legs to jelly and effectively trapped him there. 

He was  _ still _ smiling. He was just standing there, shirtless, in the middle of a dark church with two violent psychopaths, lit only by the moonlight and sodium lamps, and he was smiling. 

Crowley was gone. He’d never seen anything so incredible in all his life and he was falling faster by the second for this soft vision that clearly had a core of forged steel. 

The priest took a step forward, into the moonlight, and his hair lit up. Literally, lit up. All of it. Glowing like a halo and OK so maybe the wings tattoo had suggested that idea but Crowley decided that he was looking at an angel. Not one of those tinsel and platitudes angel, but the old school sort. The ones that used to open with ‘be not afraid’. 

And strangely, Crowley wasn’t. The priest’s shirt was dropped to the floor, and Crowley wasn’t frightened any more, because there was no way Hastur and Ligur would be able to…

The priest reached around his back and Crowley nearly fainted at the sight of the muscles in his arm and back shifting over each other. He’d never really thought he had a type, but then again he’d never met anyone like this priest before. Fuck it, he’d never actually met an actual priest before. He’d fallen out with God a very long time ago and never saw any reason to go back, until now. He’d come to church every Sunday if this was his priest. Probably be coming the rest of the week too, but not at church. Although now he’d thought about it… 

The priest’s hand brushed against the sword inked into his skin and Crowley was sure it wasn’t coloured in before… 

The last thing he remembered was what looked very much like the priest drawing the sword from its place along his spine, as the wings seemed to expand outwards and burst from his back, spreading out wide, huge and white and glowing in the moonlight. 

_ There should be screams _ , Crowley thought as he slumped forward,  _ why aren’t there screams? _

* * *

  
There was a hand. There was a hand shaking his shoulder, rolling him over, and whatever he was lying on was cold and very hard. 

Stone. Church. Hastur. Priest. Wings. SWORD.

Crowley opened his eyes and batted the hand away. It took him a moment to realise that the owner of said hand was the priest, very much alive and looking down at him with unbelievably blue eyes. They were ridiculous. Nobody’s eyes were that colour. 

But he’d had wings, actual feather covered wings, so maybe he was a bit more than a nobody...

The priest’s shirt was back on, collar back in place as if nothing had happened. He didn’t appear to have any injuries, and, as Crowley searched wildly around, there seemed to be a distinct lack of Hastur or Ligur. 

Crowley looked back at the priest. He was crouched next to him, carefully positioned so that Crowley had a clear line of sight to the exit, and he was still fucking smiling. 

Where the hell to start?

“What did you do to them?” Eh, it was the question worrying Crowley the most. He didn’t feel any sorrow for their absence, he just wanted a vague idea of what might be about to happen to him. 

“Those two men? Oh you won’t be hearing from them any time soon. I wouldn’t worry.” Crowley’s spike of fear must have shown on his face, because the priest somehow managed to make himself look even less threatening, not that Crowley was fooled. He’d seen the damned sword. “They, um, heard the call, I believe. Realised the error of their ways, and last I saw they were planning on devoting the rest of their lives to charitable works.” 

See, now, that smile looked just a little big smug, if you asked Crowley. And the wiggle that went with it could only be described as adorable. 

“How about you, my dear, are you alright? You must be cold down there.” Shit, the priest had such a lovely voice, and come to think of it he was rather cold. And right now he could really go for some cocoa- Wait. That wasn’t his thought. He didn’t think like that at all. 

Crowley didn’t know what was going on, but he was  _ not _ going to be taken in. Whatever this… creature had done to him he was going to fight it all the way. Crowley was a gentleman thief. He was not above a bit of extracurricular activities on a job (it wouldn’t be the first time), but this mushy feeling could never come from him. He didn’t do those sorts of feelings. 

He glared up at the priest. “Stop that.”

“Stop what, my dear?” Still smiling. 

“Whatever it is you are doing to me. Stop it. Not having it.”

The smile finally faltered, and Crowley didn’t like it as much as he thought he would. 

“Why do you think I am doing something to you?” The priest asked, his head tilting slightly. “I’m just a priest. My name is Father Aziraphale. I think perhaps you hit your head?”

Well, now Crowley thought about it again, perhaps he had hit his head. He fell down quite hard when he tripped. That made more sense, didn’t it? Perhaps he just needed a nice lie down and-

_ Nope. _ Crowley scowled again. Nice was a four letter word that he never used. 

“That. Sssstop it.” Crowley hissed, pulling himself up to sitting and putting some distance between them. “Get out of my head.”

The priest looked rather surprised at that, full, pink lips pressing together quite distractingly. 

“I… what do you remember, Crowley?” He asked. 

“What, you mean like the massive, fuck off wings and sword that erupted from your back?” Crowley snarled. 

He remembered that very clearly. He did not remember, however, giving this priest his name.

There was a stunned silence, and Crowley used it to look over the priest again. He still had that absolute stillness to his body, that softly rounded appearance. But Crowley knew that was all for show and it only made him more attracted to this… whatever he was. Actually…

“What are you?” He asked. 

Father Aziraphale looked a little sheepish at that question. “I suppose now is probably a tad too late to say ‘be not afraid’?”

Crowley laughed. He carried on laughing for quite some time. Aziraphale joined him after a while, a nervous titter. Eventually he sat down properly on the floor and put his head in his hands. 

“Oh, Gabriel is going to be most displeased.”

Crowley paused, only to burst out laughing again. “Gabriel, as in the Archangel fucking Gabriel?” He gasped. Aziraphale nodded. 

Crowley calmed down eventually. His laughter petering out. “Oh fuck…” He sighed. “Right, well, it’s been fun, but I need a very stiff drink, because I am probably going to be dragged in front of Lucian and I have no idea what the fuck I am going to tell him.” Crowley pulled himself to his feet. 

“Anyway, nice to meet you, Angel. In any other circumstances I’d definitely be asking you out for a drink with a view to getting you to take that shirt off again, but I can’t imagine that’s the sort of thing your lot go in for, is it?” Crowley said, brushing himself off. He looked up to see the angel looking at him with one eyebrow raised. 

“Wot, you telling me an angel nips off down the pub for a pint?” Crowley smirked at the very idea of it. 

Aziraphale bristled, fidgeting with his white collar. “I have standards…” He looked down at himself and huffed. “Speaking of which…” He raised his hand, fingers poised to click. “Don’t tell Gabriel?”

Crowley felt the change, not in a way he could describe, but one moment he was looking at a priest, the next moment he was looking at a gentleman who could very well be on his way to a Victorian Society convention. Crowley did not want to admit just how much it suited him. 

“Is that… Is that tartan?” Crowley asked, looking at the bow tie. Aziraphale fidgeted with it. Crowley couldn’t believe he was still finding this man… man shaped being? Man shaped angel, as attractive as he was. It was ludicrous. 

“Gaaaaah. Right. What do these ‘standards’ entail then?” He groaned.

The smile was back. It hit Crowley right in the chest. “I said stop it!” He grumbled.

Aziraphale looked slightly confused. “I’m not…”

Crowley made some unintelligible sounds. “Whatever. Just… What do you like to drink?” He said with his head in his hands. If you’d asked him this morning if he knew that by the end of the night he would be stood at the altar of a church, asking an angel out, he’d have told you to go back and complain to your dealer. But here he was. 

“Oh! Wine.” Aziraphale replied. 

“Fine. Wine bar. Come on. You can tell me all about it once I’ve got some alcohol in me.”

“I’m not sure Michael would approve of that…”

“Make that  _ extraordinary _ amounts of alcohol.” Crowley wandered off down the centre of the church, heading for the door. He stepped through the orange patches on the floor, weaving in and out of the strange, monochrome light. Pausing at the end, he looked back. Aziraphale hadn’t moved. 

Perhaps it was for the best, perhaps he’d wake up and realise that this had all been a dr-

“I said stop that! Now, come on!” He called. 

“You’re… Well I’ll be damned.” Aziraphale said, hurrying to catch up. They exited the Church together. Crowley leaned in, grinning. 

“‘S not that bad, once you get used to it.” 


End file.
